


Dissect My Insecurities

by salem_student



Series: Dissect my Insecurities [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bulimia, Dom/sub, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalised Fatphobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sub Eliot Waugh, Suicidal Thoughts, Weight Gain, but rn just kissing, they'll be smut later i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salem_student/pseuds/salem_student
Summary: Quentin gains weight during a period of depression, Eliot comforts him. Title from Prom Queen by Beach Bunny.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Dissect my Insecurities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051727
Comments: 31
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

The bus arrives late, Quentin chose the late bus deliberately. It gave credibility to his insistence that Eliot didn’t need to meet him at the bus stop. He pulls at his too-tight shirt, cringing at the way it stretches across his new stomach. He’s never had an actual stomach before; he hates it. It’s evidence of what the last few months have done to him. Evidence of nights spent stuffing his face so he wouldn’t have to find something to do with his hands, of days forcing himself to feel so violently sick that there was no room for any of his actual emotions. Worst of all, it’s evidence of his foolhardy attempts to feel better. Proof of a slew of different anti-depressants, all of which he gave the chance to get the side effects, but didn’t stay on long enough for them to actually work. He’s too used to magic, wants a quick fix for a broken brain. 

Supposedly he’s better now, in the same way, he was better when he took the Brakebills entrance exam. He’d checked himself into Midtown again, at Julia’s insistence, immediately regretted it when he realised that they didn’t know about magic, wasted two weeks talking about his childhood and the pressure he’s under to succeed and his complicated relationship with his best friend. He’s quite proud of the story he came up with there, Eliot just wasn’t himself for the last nine months, and he felt obligated to look after him. Turns out if you spin it the right way, it is possible to trick an entire mental health team that rather than your best friend/ex-husband/current boyfriend being possessed by a monster and forcing you to help him kill people you just had a potentially co-dependent relationship with a drug addict who was unwilling to commit. He frowns at the idea that both of those things could be true. 

He gets off the bus, waits dully for his bag to be pulled out of the hold. Wrapped in his oversized coat and scarf, he feels enormous. Stupid to wear a puffer coat when he already feels like his body has inflated. He feels his body acutely, the way the jacket’s armholes cut into the flesh around his upper arms, the stretch of it across his stomach and hips. When he looks down, he’s amazed he can see his feet. The psychiatrist would have a fancy word for this hyper self-awareness, Quentin just has one. Fat. Running around and round in his head. He never thought of himself as someone that cared, prided himself on the absence of fatphobia in his internal biases. Turns out the minute his body changes without his permission, his hatred for his mind has no problem spilling out and focusing on every expanded flaw of his body. He picks up his duffle bag, swings it over his shoulder and turns around. 

Eliot’s standing at the bus stop. He looks stupidly attractive as always; all long and lean and wearing a coat that makes him look elegant and not at all like a rubber dingy. He’s smiling at him, waving. Suddenly Quentin can’t breathe. Fuck. He didn’t want to do this now. He wants to - fuck if he’s honest he wanted to lose twenty pounds between tonight and tomorrow and have Eliot look at him as if he’s beautiful again. He would have settled for spending the night on the couch and ensuring that he wasn’t wearing this goddamn coat when Eliot saw him for the first time in three months. Eliot’s still smiling at him and now fuck he really can’t breathe, the zip of the coat is constricting around his neck. He’s sweating, and the strap of the duffle bag is cutting into his shoulder and somehow despite his panic all his brain can think to do is yell at him. ‘You could have at least tried to lose weight in the hospital instead of continuing to stuff your fat face. Who the hell do you think you are trying to seduce Eliot Waugh when you can’t even be depressed in a sexy way.’ Usually, he’d have a good come back for that, what does depressed in a sexy way even mean? He’s drawing attention to himself, breathing too heavily, not moving, no moving, swaying? Is this a panic attack or have his lungs collapsed under the pressure of his newfound body weight and Eliot’s fucking eyes. 

Eliot’s smile disappears, and Quentin feels a sick sort of relief, he doesn’t want him anymore. Anxious, fatphobic suspicions confirmed. He wants to eat twelve burgers and also lose so much weight that he’s un-fuckable in a different way, in the way that makes Eliot worry he’d break him. There’s a hand on his back, squishing in the puffer jacket, causing it to compress against his fat. Quentin jerks away from it, trying to escape his own body. Then the weight of his duffle bag is gone, and there’s a warm hand slipping into his own. He’s being pulled away from the bus, towards a bench. Someone is pushing him down onto the cold metal with strong hands. Eliot’s face is swimming into view in front of him, he’s saying something that Quentin can’t hear over the ratchet of his brain. ‘you disgust him, you are disgusting, vile, fat.’ 

“Q. It’s okay, just breathe okay? We can stay here as long as you need, I haven’t got anywhere to be. I’m here. Just breathe with me, alright? 1 - 2 - okay now breathe out.” Eliot’s voice slowly filters through to Quentin’s brain, managing to be barely louder than his internal monologue. Now slightly more in his own body, Quentin has the privilege of his conscious mind knowing Eliot is looking at him. He pulls his scarf up to cover his double chin and wraps his arms around his stomach. He can feel the squish that he’s not used to yet, he wraps his arms around himself tighter in an attempt to hide it. Eliot sits down next to him. He motions to put his arm around his shoulder but stops himself at the way Quentin shies away from his touch. 

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I thought it would be nice to be surprised, I didn’t really account for…” He trails off. Still, Quentin knows what he’s going to say, he didn’t account for being disgusted by what Quentin looks like now, or he didn’t account for Quentin’s craziness making him panic at just the idea of being looked at, or god what if he’s so big now that even picking up his duffle bag is enough to give him an aneurysm. So many things that Eliot didn’t consider in wanting to surprise him. Eliot’s face is looking worried again, and his hand reaches across to hold Quentin’s, his soft thumb pad rubbing little circles against Quentin’s knuckles. “Hey, you still with me Q?” He’s saying softly, looking into Q’s eyes. The tenderness there is confusing, how can Eliot look at him with that love when he knows, is certain, that he’s unloveable looking like this, or more unloveable than he was before anyway. 

Quentin forces himself to smile, get this over with. Maybe in the dark Eliot doesn’t realise what he looks like, perhaps he thinks he’s just wearing an oversized coat. Maybe he can have one last night where Eliot looks at him like he’s the most beautiful human he’s ever seen. He lets himself pretend. “Sorry, I think. Sometimes when you see people after - you know, being in like a” He doesn’t want to say mental hospital, Eliot helps him out. Quentin has to hold himself back from hugging him. “I know,” Eliot says softly, he knows that Quentin doesn’t want him to say it either. Patiently he waits for Quentin to finish. “It just - the world can be a bit of a … shock, especially seeing people, like, people you … care about. It’s like a trigger or whatever.” He shrugs at the last sentence, not wanting Eliot to dwell on the clinical terminology or his easy, and correct, use of it. Eliot smiles at him, “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry. I won’t spring myself on you again.” Quentin can tell that he means it and wishes more than anything that he could just be good enough to keep this perfect man around in the daylight. “You think you’re okay to head home?” Eliot asks, no pressure in his voice. Quentin nods. 

After about a block of walking, Quentin realises what home means, lights, removal of excess layers, revealing his actual body. He’s not ready for that now, ever maybe, definitely not tonight. He stops walking, and Eliot stops too, looking at him quizzically. His hand tightens around Quentin’s. Quentin’s heart throbs with the simple way he’s expressing that whatever the reason Quentin has stopped walking he’s here for him. Quentin forces another smile, “before we go home, do you want to get a drink or something and tell me about your trip?” After his recovery and the start of their relationship, Eliot had been offered a job in France for the last three months. They’d both agreed that it would be a good opportunity, an excuse to get away from New York for a bit. A chance to try out life without monsters or quests, a normal way to get fulfilment. Turns out that was a terrible idea. The moment the real Eliot wasn’t there to remind him it was over Quentin couldn’t stop thinking that the monster was going to burst into the penthouse any moment. He couldn’t relax, could barely cast, and his brain never shut up. Hence the overeating, and the relapses in other areas of self-destruction he was more used to, and the admittance to Midtown. Eliot was due to come back in a few weeks anyway, but he’d cut his trip short. The knowledge that he’d done that, only to be inevitably disappointed by Quentin made him feel sick. 

“Uh, sure. Are you drinking?”   
“No, but I can have a lemonade. I just don’t really want to go home right now.” Eliot nods in understanding. Quentin feels relieved at the quick jump Eliot makes, he doesn’t want to go back to the place he was terrorised by the monster, where he’s spent the last three months having a breakdown, not that he doesn’t want to go anywhere where Eliot could catch a glimpse of his body. Eliot checks his watch then gently pulls Q down the street. “I know a hedge bar round here, they’ll be open for a good few hours yet.” 

Soon enough Quentin is drinking a ridiculous virgin cocktail with an umbrella in and Eliot is drinking something equally absurd, but with alcohol in. “Is this 100% necessary?” He asks poking at the blue umbrella, so it spins around in the glass. “We’re celebrating our first night together again,” Eliot says with a laugh, he takes a drink, and Quentin stares down at his glass. Mentally he’s trying to work out how many calories are in this. It’s sweet, so probably too many. He takes a sip anyway, peach juice and something else he can’t place. He smiles, “you know. Sometimes the peach references are a little bit obvious.” He says, but his brain’s kicking in, telling him exactly where those few calories are going to go on his body. He pushes the glass away from him and leans back, trying to disguise his sudden disgust. “What can I say, I’m nothing if not tonally consistent, peach,” Eliot says with a smirk. He’s looking at Quentin like he loves him and Quentin is grateful for the darkness of the bar.   
He’s taken off the stupid puffer jacket leaving him wearing his oversized hoodie and scarf. He has the scarf pulled up high, and the hoodie pulled down to cover his palms. He’s hoping that Eliot thinks he’s wearing lots of layers and hasn’t clocked his weight gain yet.

“So, how was France?” He asks, wanting Eliot to stop looking at him like that, hopes that he can get him focused on something other than Quentin. He takes another sip of his drink, wishes that it was alcoholic. “It was fun, beautiful, obviously, and the work was good. Q I think I was born to be a Parisian. You know they work for about two hours in the morning then stop, drink wine, smoke and bitch for the rest of the day.” Eliot’s eyes are crinkled, he’s gesturing at his speaks, Quentin feels himself relax, he loves it when Eliot talks. He lets himself focus entirely on Eliot, floats in the imagined Paris they could share.” I’m going to take you. You’d love it for the food alone.” Suddenly he’s pulled back into his body, suddenly uncomfortably aware of himself. He pushes his chair away from the table and yanks his eyes away from Eliot’s. Without meaning to ,his hands retreat to his stomach, is it that obvious? Has he become such a glutton that Eliot needs to offer him food to get him to go somewhere. Eliot’s frowning, his forehead creased ,his mouth pursed in confusion and concern. He’s reaching one hand across the table, grasping for Quentin’s. Reluctantly Quentin forces himself to reach out and take it. 

In the dim light Quentin stares at their hands together, Eliot’s slender fingers interlaced with Quentin’s own. He’s suddenly aware of how sausage-like his fingers look. God, has he really gained weight in his hands? How did he not know that? What the fuck was he thinking trying to see Eliot when he looks like this. He tenses up but avoids pulling his hand away from Eliot’s. Eliot must have noticed by now, but maybe he’s too polite to say anything? Quentin commits himself to tonight, he can make his excuses later. Eliot would never break up with him for something as vain as weight, it’s up to Quentin to give him an appropriate out. 

Quentin brings his eyes back to Eliot’s and forces another smile, Eliot’s frown doesn’t let up, and Quentin curses himself for not being a better actor. “Sorry, I …” His brain freewheels trying to come up with a good excuse. “We can go home if this is a bit much for you?” God that sympathy, that pity. Poor Quentin can’t handle the real world, it just makes Q feel sicker. Quentin pulls his hand away from Eliot’s and takes a long drink while he comes up with a good reason. The sweet liquid sits at the top of his stomach, mixing with the acid that’s crawling up his throat. “I just” Eliot is looking at him with such concern, that expression used to help, it just makes him feel worse. He doesn’t deserve that concern, not looking like this. He takes another drink, it hits the wall of sweet acid in his oesophagus. Quentin stands up, “Sorry I really - I need to.” He looks pleadingly in the direction of the toilet, Eliot shakes his head a little incredulously, but nods ,“sure. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

Quentin runs to the bathroom, the drink and whatever carb-filled crap he ate on the bus racing up his throat. Within minutes he’s slammed the cubicle door shut, and he’s vomiting into the bowl. With each heave his mind becomes a little clearer, the acid leaving his body seems to be taking some of his acrid internal monologue with it. He vomits until he’s just bringing up clear bile. When he finally stops, he feels dizzy, empty, calm. Why does it feel good? For a moment his brain is quiet, then he realises he’s been gone for a while. What will Eliot be thinking? Fuck will Eliot come to find him? He flushes the toilet and readies himself to face the world. 

Thankfully Eliot isn’t waiting outside the cubicle for him, maybe it hasn’t been that long? He cringes at his own reflection, hair hanging down limp around his rounded face. His stomach is barely hidden by the hoodie. He realises with disgust, that while this used to be an oversized hoodie, now it may be appropriately sized. The harsh bathroom light is not flattering. Quentin fills his cupped hands with water and rinses his mouth out, trying to avoid looking in the mirror as he does. 

He heads back out to the table. Eliot looks up from his phone as Quentin approaches. He’s smiling, and his eyes hold so much gentle concern it makes Quentin want to run back to the bathroom and vomit all of this horrible guilt out, silence the bit of his brain screaming ‘you don’t deserve this’. He doesn’t do that. He sits down, forces himself to take a sip of his drink, holds back a wince as it hits his sensitive throat. 

“Sorry, long coach trip.” Eliot nods, Quentin can tell that he wants to say something but thinks better of it. Eliot’s hand reaches forward and takes Quentin’s, he looks into his eyes and says softly “I’ve got you okay? Whatever your brain’s saying I’m with you.” Quentin swallows, god how can he make this last longer? How does he keep this love? “Let's go home okay?” Eliot hasn’t finished his drink, he just wants to get Q home safe. God Quentin doesn’t want to have to give this up. Maybe he can keep the lights low and keep his hoodie on? Stave off the inevitable until tomorrow. Quentin nods and the two of them walk home together, hand in hand. 

The penthouse is quiet when they enter, Quentin finds his grip on Eliot’s hand tightening as they go in. This place brings back memories. “It’s okay, it’s me here, just Eliot no monster” Eliot is saying softly, his thumb rubbing over the back of Quentin’s hand again. Quentin is so, so grateful for this, he lets himself give in to the comfort, for now, leans in and rests his forehead against Eliot’s shoulder. He breathes in the smell that is so Eliot and not at all like the monster, cologne and tobacco and that smell that is just Eliot, warm and sweet. The scent of home. 

Eliot’s free hand goes to Quentin’s hair, he strokes it in time with his comforting murmurs. When Quentin feels his heart rate slow to match Eliot’s he pulls away a little, Eliot’s hand slips down to cup his neck. “Hi there, “Eliot says a smile playing across his lips. “Hey,” Quentin responds. He drinks in Eliot’s face, the crinkle in his eyes, the shallow lines that have started appearing on his forehead, the fullness of his lips and the way his eyes are just staring at Quentin like Quentin is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Eliot bends down and kisses him.

Quentin’s missed this. His mouth falls open quickly as Eliot kisses him slow and soft, his fingers tangling in the hair at Quentin’s neck. They’re still holding hands, Quentin doesn’t let go. He likes the innocence of kissing while holding hands. He brings his spare hand to Eliot’s waist, lets his fingers ghost across the rough fabric of Eliot’s coat. He wants that coat gone, wants to feel the silky waistcoat, the warm skin that he knows is underneath. Quentin moans a little at the thought, pushing his body into Eliot’s. The hand in his hair tightens, pulls Quentin closer. Eliot’s licking into Quentin’s mouth, Quentin responds by sucking on his tongue. He shivers at the moan he pulls from Eliot’s mouth, bites down on Eliot’s bottom lip. They break the kiss, both of them are breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together and their faces flushed.

“I’ve missed you.” Eliot says, untangling his hand from Quentin’s to bring both of his hands around Quentin’s waist. Without meaning to Quentin jerks away, he can feel Eliot’s hands compressing the softness around his stomach, it brings that acid taste back to his mouth. Eliot’s brow furrows, but he lets his hands slip away from Quentin’s waist. He doesn’t question the response. Quentin thanks and curses whoever let him have this perfect man. “I’m tired, let’s go to bed.” Quentin says and pulls away from Eliot entirely.

He walks to the bedroom and Eliot trails behind. “Do you want me to join you?” He asks in a nervous voice that Quentin isn’t used to hearing from him. That sound hurts Quentin deep in his chest, Eliot thinks that Quentin is reacting like this because he’s scared of him. Quentin holds the door open for Eliot, “of course, I want you to join me.” He says his voice is cracking a little because he does. More than anything he wants Eliot curled around him tonight, wants to wake up tangled in his limbs, warmed by where their skin touches. But he can’t have that, he can’t have Eliot seeing him naked, can’t have him actually seeing him. Chaste touches and multiple layers in the dark may have managed to trick his boyfriend into thinking he’s still attractive enough to deserve his love, but there’s nothing to hide in nakedness. But he can’t let Eliot spend the night thinking that Quentin’s afraid of him, can’t put him through that again. Not after all the work they did to make Eliot comfortable touching Quentin, to make him not terrified of breaking him. Quentin reaches forward and pulls Eliot into another kiss, he tries not to think that this will be his last one. The last kiss he gets before Eliot sees him and realises how disgusting he is now.   
Eliot smiles against his lips and walks the two of them through the doorway, not breaking the kiss to shut the door behind him. His hands hover over Quentin’s waist, Quentin tries not to think about what that could mean. Eliot breaks the kiss then pecks Quentin’s lips with a little laugh. “I’m never leaving you again.” He says with a smile, pecks another kiss to Quentin’s lips, “except for right now, because I want you to still be attracted to me in the morning.” Quentin forces a laugh at the joke. He tries to not think about the irony of Eliot being the disappointment as Eliot grabs his toiletry bag and heads out the door. 

Quentin picks the biggest pyjamas he has and gets changed into them quickly, avoiding looking at his own naked body in the mirror. He goes to the other bathroom and brushes his teeth in the dark. When he gets back to the bedroom Eliot is still doing his extensive nighttime routine, probably on step two of twenty Quentin thinks fondly. He’s grateful for the opportunity to get under the covers, hide the way his pyjamas stretch and bulge across his stomach and thighs. When the door cracks open and Eliot pads lightly into the room, Quentin forces himself to slow his breathing and pretend to be asleep. When Eliot gets into bed next to him, he wraps his arms around Quentin, he can feel his silk pyjamas sliding against the cotton of Quentin’s ratty T-shirt. Eliot presses a kiss to Quentin’s neck, snuggles closer. His arms are wrapped around Quentin’s body, Quentin doesn’t understand how he’s not disgusted by the squish, but for now, he lets himself relax. He falls asleep to the sound of Eliot’s gentle breathing. 

When Quentin wakes up, it’s to an empty bed and sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains. He sighs as he rolls over to look at the pillow where Eliot had fallen asleep. It’s over. He’s gone. At least it happened while he was sleeping, that’s some small dignity at least. 

His brain feels fuzzy, he looks at the bedside clock. It’s 12.00, no wonder he feels like shit. He’s just slept for like 10 hours. After the regimented 7am wake ups at Midtown, he’s basically moved time zones. 

Quentin manages to sneak to the bathroom without anyone seeing him. He re-enters the living room smelling of raspberries and feeling marginally more human. He’s wearing another previously oversized now uncomfortably fitted hoodie and a pair of jeans that pinch around his middle. The restriction around his stomach is making him breathe shallowly, and he keeps having to repeat to himself that he’s just fat not having a panic attack. The reminder that he’s fat and therefore, unloveable doesn’t help mitigate the panic.

He wants to retreat back to his bedroom, but he’s stopped by the sudden appearance of Eliot and Margo. Quentin stops walking, his heart in his throat. They haven't noticed him yet, too distracted by their heated discussion about whether it’s cool to go to Encanto Occulto as graduates. Quentin contemplates sneaking back to the bathroom, hiding there until they’re gone. Or does he know a tut for invisibility? What sort of stupid apartment plan makes him need to walk through the living room to get to his bedroom? Maybe Eliot won’t even say anything, he snuck out, after all. Perhaps they can just pretend Quentin doesn’t exist until he moves out and disappears from their lives completely. 

Quentin’s internal monologue is interrupted by Margo breezing over to the armchair and sitting on it with the manner of a king. Quentin would blame this on her actually being a king, but she’s always sat like that.” Hey Q, welcome back to the real world.” Quentin blushes and fiddles with his hoodie strings, “you get the irony of you saying that when you actually live in a fantasy land with talking animals right?”   
“Mmhmm, still pretty sure my talking animals feel more real than your psychiatric clinic.” Margo says it with the sharp humour that he’s used to, but it hurts. The softness in her face shows that she’s noticed, he can see her mouth forming an apology. Quentin cuts across her, “I didn’t realise the news had spread to Fillory. How many bunnies did that take? Did you cram it into two? ‘Quentin. Having. Mental. Breakdown.’ ‘Again’”. He forces himself to keep his tone light and jovial, breathes an internal sigh of relief when his joke diffuses the tension. “Sorry babe, you know Margo, and I share a brain cell” Eliot says draping himself over the sofa and making grabby hands at Quentin. Quentin doesn’t move. Eliot can’t actually want him, can he?

Margo makes a mock affronted noise, and Eliot corrects himself with a fond glance at her, “Sorry Bambi, I have one brain cell that you have to look after sometimes.” He reaches over and kisses her hands. She stretches out and performs her own royalty. “I accept your apology, but be careful, or I’ll set my talking bears on you.” She winks at Quentin, then reaches out for him. He still doesn’t move, “Come on, Q, I can’t live my Lyra Silvertongue dreams without filling you in.” Eliot groans dramatically, “what did I do to deserve two nerds as the most important people in my life?” Quentin concedes and perches on the edge of the sofa. Quentin’s painfully aware that he might be taking up more space than he should; that he might be drawing undue attention to his size.

Within moments of him sitting down, Eliot has his hands weaved into Quentin’s hair. Margo is launching into what seems like a very pre-rehearsed story of her volunteer bear army and how they defeated the Illorian troops. She takes great pleasure in describing the look on Idri’s face when she rode in on a bear. “like Daenerys but with bears.” Eliot muses, both Quentin and Margo stare at him in astonishment. “oh come on. It’s sexy men and dragons.” Quentin giggles and Eliot presses a kiss to his temple, “I am but a simple man with simple desires.” Eliot says. Margo raises an eyebrow, “your desires are the farthest it is possible to be from simple.” She makes eye contact with Quentin just to say in a mock scandalised voice, “has he tied you up yet?” Quentin blushes furiously, and Margo and Eliot dissolve into peals of laughter.

Eliot’s hands are snaking around his body, tugging him backwards on the sofa into a cuddle. Quentin can’t not hear the quiet huff as Eliot’s damaged muscles try to move him. Quentin blushes again, wonders darkly if it’s still going to possible to suspend him or if that’s another reason Eliot will never fuck him again. Officially too fat for kinky suspension play. “That’s for us to know and you to wonder about desperately” He says as he settles Quentin onto his chest, he presses a loud, wet kiss to Quentin’s cheek. Quentin pretends to playfully squirm away from his mouth when really he’s trying to find a spot where he isn’t worried about suffocating Eliot.

Eliot chases him with his mouth, his hands reaching for Quentin’s armpits. God, he isn’t. Eliot is, he’s actually tickling him. How can he stand it? Quentin’s internal monologue doesn’t have space to properly lay into him, not with the way he’s being forced breathless and squirmy on Eliot’s lap. “Stop, El!” He says through laughter. “Make me” Eliot whispers into his ear. Quentin flips over onto his stomach. He manages to straddle Eliot with his thighs and pin his arms down to his chest. Eliot’s looking up at him with what Quentin is sure can’t be sexual attraction, not from this angle with his double chins so obvious. Yet Eliot’s breathing in short little gasps, his pupils are blown, and he’s wearing that smirk. The smirk that means ‘I’m excited to see where this might lead.’ The two of them are trapped at that moment, Quentin breathless and red from the exertion, ashamed at his sweat. Eliot pinned underneath him, aroused? 

Margo clears her throat, and Quentin turns around awkwardly, he shrugs a sort of bemused apology at her. “If you’re not going to get a room at least give Mama a show.” Margo drawls. Eliot slips free from Quentin’s grasp. In a surprising show of ab strength for someone with a still-healing axe wound, he pushes the two of them up to a seating position. Eliot wraps his arms around Quentin’s neck and plants another performative kiss there. “I’m sorry Bambi, I just can’t resist. You know it’s been three. Whole. Months.” He punctuates each word with another kiss to Quentin’s neck, “since I’ve seen this boy.” Eliot puts his chin on Quentin’s neck and pouts at her. Quentin laughs and cocks his head, joining in with the pouting. He feels safe, like he’s back at Brakebills, for the first few minutes in a long while he’s not anxious. With the way Eliot’s arms are draped around him, there’s no specific pressure on his body. For a moment Quentin forgets his size, allows himself to just feel safe with these people who love him.

Margo tips her head back and laughs, “you guys are so lucky I’m monogamous now.”   
“God help bottoms everywhere if that ever changes.” Eliot says, he floats the jug of iced coffee over to three glasses, pours them, then floats the drinks into each of their hands. He holds his aloft and raises his eyebrows at Quentin and Margo until they join him in the toast, “to bottoms and Margo’s newfound monogamy.” Quentin takes a sip of his coffee, then grumbles “are we really toasting with cold brew?” Eliot elbows him in the side, “we’re trying to, sourpuss.” Quentin sticks his tongue out and waggles his eyebrows. In response, Eliot kisses him.

Quentin’s surprised by this, both because kissing someone with their tongue out is not the smoothest of kiss entries and because he doesn’t understand why Eliot would want to kiss him in the first place. Eliot’s hand cups his neck, and for a moment Quentin’s brain shuts up. He focuses on the slide of their lips, the softness of Eliot’s mouth against Quentin’s own chapped lips. The sharpness of Eliot’s teeth against his lower lip, the bubbles of laughter escaping his own mouth and being swallowed up by Eliot. Eliot’s spare hand snakes down Quentin’s body until it settles on his waist. Eliot’s hand curls around his love handle. He actually uses it to hold Quentin’s body against his own. Eliot’s tongue dances into Quentin’s mouth as he pulls their bodies flush together. Quentin stops moving. His hoodie isn’t that thick, and Eliot’s not stupid, he must know that’s flesh, not cloth. Quentin waits for the inevitable repulsion.

Eliot pulls away, his fingers loosening their grip. Their faces are still close to each other, too close for Quentin to work out what Eliot’s complete expression is telling him. He can see confusion in the furrow of his eyebrows, his eyes darting across Quentin’s face. Quentin pulls himself away, drags his knees up to his chest and balls himself up at the opposite end of the sofa. He doesn’t miss the way Eliot’s eyes dart to Margo’s. No doubt a silent question of ‘did you know he’d gotten this disgusting? What the hell was I thinking of kissing him? How do we politely get out of here?’ Quentin swallows the lump in his throat. He can feel his eyes stinging. This is it. He’s delayed the inevitable, but here it comes. He chooses to run. 

“I’m gonna go get some food.” Quentin says sharply and stands up. As the words leave his mouth, he’s aware of the truth of them. That maw inside his chest is open again, he needs to fill it, or it’ll be left empty to fill up with shame.

Eliot and Margo exchange another look, and Eliot says, “We’ll come with you Q. “  
“I’m dying to eat some non-fillorian food.” Margo adds. Quentin actually stumbles backwards at the thought of that. A pity lunch, where Margo - pretty, skinny Margo - can watch him eat. Can judge him for what and how he eats. Can bitch about it to Eliot in the way Quentin has heard them laugh about the hapless first years making fools of themselves at the cottage. “No I… I want … “His brain kicks into gear, “I just want to read a book and have some alone time. There’s only so much a guy can take of one-to-ones, you know?” He finds himself giving a rueful smile and backing away towards his bedroom door. He grabs his bag and hurries out the front door before either of them has a chance to object.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little heavier in content. Warnings for mention of suicide and self harm.

Chapter 2

Quentin's full from dinner, it wasn't even that good just quick easy comfort food that could be eaten in central park. He counts that as a self-care win, even if he is eating disgusting fatty food, he's getting some sun on his face. Really his therapist could be proud of him. Although he can't imagine what he's doing now could be twisted into self-care. He's standing in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, poking at his stomach and watching with a sick satisfaction as his fingertip disappears into the pale flesh there. He turns to his side, cups his distended stomach with his hands. He'd look pregnant if he wasn't a) a man and b) the fat wasn't spilling out over his waistband. He undoes his jeans and pulls them down a little to stare at the angry red imprint of them on his soft underbelly. Disgusting. 

A door slams in the flat, it's accompanied by the sounds of laughter. Quentin glares at himself in the mirror, scrunches up his face so he's the ugliest it's possible for him to be, slouches and pushes out his stomach. Then a rap at the door, Quentin startles, sucks in his stomach and forces his back straight. The doors opening, he can hear Eliot saying to someone unseen "I'll be two minutes, you know I don't believe in day to night fashion." Quentin scrambles for his hoodie. When Eliot actually enters the room, Quentin is holding his hoodie in front of his chest and blushing. He doesn't like that this is precisely the same pose women do when trying to hide their breasts from view. He doesn't have breasts, but his pecs are definitely soft and more pliable than they used to be. 

Eliot beams at the sight of Quentin, and he feels as if he's been stunned by it. What is he doing? He knows that Quentin is giving him so many opportunities to get out, right? Quentin grimaces at the thought that he might have to be more explicit. Actually break up with Eliot, to save him the pain of having to say he's repulsed by Quentin.

Eliot's eyes flick up and down Quentin's body as if he can't help himself. He shuts the door with a click behind him and says, "fancy seeing you here." Quentin mumbles, "sorry I was, um... "He shrugs and nods at the open drawers in front of him. "Can you?" Eliot's eyes widen, and he gasps, "help you pick out an outfit? Q! I've been waiting years." Before Eliot can rush over to the chest of drawers and try to force Quentin into clothing that he doesn't stand a chance of fitting into anymore, Quentin shakes his head. Eliot stops moving, looks at Quentin and waits patiently for further instruction. "I just, like." He's really going to make him say it, "Can you turn around while I get dressed?" Quentin says, looking at the floor. He doesn't see Eliot's reaction, but he hears Eliot spin to face the wall, and he notices the slight tightness in his voice when Eliot says, "Sure, just let me know when I can look." He doesn't know what that means.

Later that night it becomes clear was Eliot wasn't saying. The two of them are in bed, Quentin with a pillow on his chest and a book resting on it,, Eliot lying on his side, reading over Q's shoulder. Quentin got changed in the bathroom, didn't want to risk Eliot seeing his body again. Eliot's got something on his mind. His body is tensed up to the point where it's actually kind of uncomfortable to be sharing a pillow with him. When it becomes evident that Eliot's not going to drop it Quentin closes his book and turns to look at Eliot. He readies himself for the inevitable. 

Instead, Eliot looks at him very seriously and says in a low, calm voice. "You know you can tell me anything right, Q?" Quentin doesn't know what to say at that, "yes?" He says slowly. Eliot nods then he continues, "So if you're hiding anything you're doing from me, then you don't need to." Quentin shuffles away from Eliot a little, "what are you getting at?" He asks, his hands wrap more tightly around the pillow which is hiding his stomach. "I'm just going to say it okay?" Eliot says, still with that sober tone. "Sure, whatever," Quentin says defensively. "If you're self-harming you don't need to hide it from me. I'm not going to judge you." Eliot says. 

"I'm not… El, come on. I'm not self-" He cuts himself off, "I'm not doing that. "Quentin says. He shudders a little at the thought. Not that that wasn't something he'd done in the past, and he'd definitely come close in the past few months, but he had like coping skills now. Or well, not coping skills exactly. "Julia put the can't hurt yourself charm on me, and then I went into the hospital. I'm like 100%, not self-harming." Quentin says. Eliot frowns at him, looks at the way he's still holding that pillow to his chest disbelievingly. "What's the half-life on that spell like Q?" He asks.  
"Oh, come on. I'm not." This feels too much like being sixteen again, in his childhood bedroom heavy on new pills watching his dad confiscate anything even remotely sharp. "Eliot trust me." Quentin can feel his voice getting shorter, and he's getting annoyed. "I'm 26 years old and a magician, I don't need you confiscating my safety scissors and watching me shave every day." Eliot is taken aback by his tone, instead of pulling away, as Quentin wants him to, he doubles down.

Eliot pulls one leg up, so he's sitting in a semi-cross-legged position, one arm on his folded knee, the other resting on that same legs ankle. His whole posture is open, kind. His body screams 'you could just crawl right into my chest, and I'd hold you there forever.' Quentin tenses, he reminds himself he's not allowed to do that. Eliot doesn't actually want him. "I'm not going to go through your shit Q." Eliot says, still in that weird calm voice, "I just want you to be honest with me. Honesty's part of it, right? This is a safe space or whatever."

Quentin glares at him, how dare he be so kind. "Did you read a fucking pamphlet?" He spits out. Eliot smiles, and how can be smiling? Why is he making this so hard? Quentin never thought that Eliot was dense, but he's really slow to take this bait. "no Q. I've just been here before." Quentin swallows down the lump in his throat. He pulls himself off the bed so that he's standing over Eliot. "Not with me, you haven't. Look I don't need your fucking pity. I'm not your project, and you can't fix me with "honesty" and "safe spaces"," He mocks Eliot's affected accent there and only feels a little bad doing it. If this is what it takes for Eliot to take the out; which he so obviously wants, so be it. "Look I'm not self-harming okay? I'm fucking fat, and I know you're like repulsed by it. So drop the act." 

Eliot's blinking, frowning, his eyes tracking up and down Quentin's body. He's scrutinising him, noticing all the new fleshy parts. "I'm not so delicate that I'll kill myself because Eliot fucking Waugh doesn't want to fuck me anymore. I have better reasons to kill myself." Quentin says with a bark of laughter that he doesn't recognise. 

The two men look at each other, Quentin angry and trying very hard not to cry. Eliot's face is a stunned, stony mask that Quentin can't read. Quentin breaks first. He walks to the door, opens it before turning back to Eliot to say, "You can have the bed, I'll crash on the sofa. We can talk about sleeping arrangements tomorrow." Suddenly Quentin feels exhausted, like in his tirade he's pushed all the energy he's got for the next week out of him all at once. Just before he walks through the door, Eliot springs into action. 

The door slams shut and Eliot's steady, slender hand is wrapped around Quentin's wrist. Eliot's looking into his eyes in that profound way of his. It's really unfair for him to be doing that, can't you let a boy grieve a break up in peace? "Firstly, I absolutely do want to fuck you," Eliot says quickly. That weird explosion of laughter sounds again, it feels disconnected from Quentin's body. Eliot's still lying to him? He must really be giving off kicked puppy vibes today. "Secondly, and more importantly. What do you mean you have better reasons to kill yourself?" Quentin can't miss the slightly frantic tone in Eliot's voice there. Ah, that's what's happened, as always Quentin Coldwater says the wrong thing and now he's manipulated Eliot into staying with him. Well great. Quentin tries to pull his wrist away from Eliot's hands, Eliot doesn't let go. "Quentin, I'm not letting that slide." 

Quentin lets his face slide into what he calls his 'therapist face'. Bland, sullen, classic uncooperative. "I have no intention of harming myself or others. You don't have the legal right to keep me here seeing as you're like not a doctor. You have no need to continue pretending you're attracted to me out of fear that I'll do something stupid." Eliot runs a hand through his hair, his mouth is set in a thin line. "I'm not pretending I'm attracted to you. You're my boyfriend. I love you. I'd want to fuck you even if you were genuinely repulsive, which you're not. Please believe me on that. I don't want to leave you." Quentin's properly crying now, streams of hot tears betraying him. He wipes them away roughly, "El just take the out." Quentin says, tiredly. "Christ Q. I don't need a goddamn out!" Eliot practically shouts. 

Eliot looks about ready to hit Quentin, but he forces himself to look away, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. When he looks back at Quentin, the anger has been replaced by a sort of pleading look. "I love you, and I get it if you don't feel attractive right now. I've done the whole comfort eating thing, but I need you to accept that I want to be dating you and it scares me when you're that flippant about hurting yourself." There's a long moment of silence, Eliot's hands are shaking nervously. Quentin can feel the grip around his wrist fluttering with Eliot's anxiety. 

Quentin's brain runs through a billion different reasons why this could be a lie. Eliot could be trying to humiliate him, or it's a fetish or any other combination of reasons why Eliot isn't running away right now - he doesn't land on the truth that Eliot loves him unconditionally. Quentin flops back on the bed, too exhausted to fight anymore, either with himself or Eliot. So what if it's a fetish or a pity thing. Eliot still wants to be with him. Can't he just let himself have this? Please? Quentin takes a shaky breath and props himself up on his elbows to look at Eliot, who hasn't moved. "Okay," Quentin says, still crying, hasn't worked out how to get that to stop. "Come on." Quentin gestures for Eliot to join him on the bed. 

When Eliot clambers up next to him, Quentin can see he's crying too. Both of them have bright red noses and puffy eyes. "Can I hug you?" Eliot asks. Quentin doesn't respond. He just buries his face in Eliot's shoulder, wraps his arms tight around him. Somehow he's crying more now, which doesn't make sense because this is good right? Eliot wants to be with him? Or is at least so good at pretending he wants to be with him that it makes no difference. Why does he still feel so shitty? Eliot relaxes against Quentin, buries his own face into Quentin's shoulder. They stay like that for a long while. 

Eventually, when they're both all cried out, Eliot lifts his head. He lifts Quentin's chin gently with his forefinger and thumb. He places a soft kiss on Quentin's lips. He pulls back, so their faces are close enough for Quentin to feel Eliot's breathing on his own lips. Quentin can see the little furrow in Eliot's brow as his eyes dart across Quentin's face, looking for a reason to stop. At this moment, Quentin doesn't take that as Eliot looking for an excuse to leave. He understands that this is Eliot checking that this is okay, consent is essential even with chaste little kisses. Quentin can't help himself but smile, he reaches his own hand across and gently smoothes out the line in Eliot's brow. "Thank-you." Quentin says. He's not entirely sure what he's thanking Eliot for, everything he guesses. 

"I was so scared I was going to lose you." Eliot says hoarsely, "I was in France basically on holiday, and you were..." Quentin cuts in "falling apart?" Eliot nods "You know I'd have come home the minute you started feeling bad, right?" Quentin smiles and lies down. He pulls Eliot with him, so they're lying side-by-side on the bed, sharing a pillow. "That's why I didn't tell you until I had to. I'm trying to avoid 'codependency'," Eliot snorts at Quentin's mock therapist voice. "That's all well and good, but you are allowed to be a little dependent on me. Especially right now." Quentin rolls his eyes but snuggles in closer, burrowing into Eliot's neck." because I'm all traumatised?" He feels Eliot's chest shake in a little laugh and lets Eliot's hand guide his face back up to look at him. "No Q because _we're_ all traumatised," Eliot says, and Quentin can't resist stretching just that little bit to close the distance between their mouths. 

When the kiss breaks, Eliot holds Quentin's face close with a light touch to his jaw. He looks at him fondly, then says a little more seriously "tomorrow we're going to have a proper talk with worksheets and shit. I want to know when I'm at risk of triggering you and what we can do when I do." Quentin sighs, "I'm not afraid of you, El. My paranoia was way more about the monster coming back wearing somebody else and …" Quentin trails off. His eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, imagining what the monster would do to the real Eliot, just to punish Quentin. 

"Hey Q, we're here okay? Our post monster bedroom warded to the gills. Nothing and no-one can get in without our say so," Quentin focuses on the repeated itch of Eliot's thumb across his cheekbone, breathes in, breathes out. He looks at Eliot, smiles fondly. He wasn't too deep that time could have probably got himself out without much trouble, but it's easier with Eliot here. "I'm okay, I'm here," Quentin says. Eliot nods then he continues "Even if it's not monster trauma making you flinch when I touch you." Quentin looks away, embarrassed by his reaction to being reminded of his fat. He shouldn't still be surprised by it, it's not like it turned up overnight. He was intimately involved in every calorie lining his body. Eliot keeps stroking his cheek until Quentin looks back at him, "I only want to touch you in a way that feels good. So we're going to talk and no matter the reason why something makes you uncomfy I'll respect you," Quentin's heart throbs. In a more nervous tone, like he's wary of how Quentin will react, Eliot adds, "if it's alright, I'd like for Julia to do the no self-harm spell again. Just as a backup, okay?" Quentin sighs and shoves his face into Eliot's chest, Eliot shifts his hand from Quentin's cheek to his hair. He doesn't stop providing those grounding comforting touches for a moment. "I'm not going to do anything," Quentin groans, his voice muffled by Eliot's chest. "I know baby, I'd just like the security. So I'm not second-guessing you every time you get a scratch." Eliot says, "you could trust me," Quentin says snarkily, but there's no real venom in it. He doesn't move away from Eliot's chest. "I trust you, I'm just not sure I trust myself not to panic every time you're home late." Quentin sighs and looks up at Eliot, "okay, but don't make it like weird." He says in a tone that reminds him too much of his sixteen-year-old self. Eliot smiles and boops Quentin's nose, Quentin scrunches it up in response," that would be making it weird," Eliot laughs and says in his best mock formal, "I solemnly swear not to make it weird. Still, I retain my rights to boop your very boopable nose," Quentin laughs, then says very seriously, "I love you, I think maybe too much," Eliot looks at him for a moment then says softly, "I am in exactly the same predicament." 

Quentin wakes up smooshed into Eliot's armpit, his legs are wrapped around Eliot's like a sloth. He grumbles and wriggles out if Eliot's grip. Eliot cracks open his eyes and looks blearily at Quentin, "whadda you want?" He mumbles, tightening his arm around Quentin as if afraid he might float away." your armpit stank isn't the most conducive to breathing," Quentin says as he struggles up, so his head is resting on Eliot's chest. Eliot shuffles him around a little until they're comfortable then says firmly, but sleepily, "Stay. Mine. My Quentin." Quentin laughs as Eliot immediately starts snoring again. Quentin snuggles up into Eliot's chest, rubbing his face against it like he's a cat scenting it. He thinks to himself "mine." He can't quite believe he gets to have this. He's too sleepy to argue with his own mind and falls asleep again.

When he wakes up again, at like an actually decent time, it's to the sound of Eliot tapping away at a laptop." Hey sleepyhead," he says with a fond smile, "I thought I'd bring my work to you."  
Quentin groans and props himself up on his elbows to peer at Eliot's screen, he's writing an email in french. It's 8.30am. "Since when were you the sort of person who wakes up early to work?" Quentin rubs his eyes. "since I'm jetlagged and still have to check the wards are working because I left early." Eliot says, he sends off the email and shuts the laptop. Quentin feels a sickness in the pit of his stomach, of course, Eliot has to work remotely. He had to rush back because Quentin couldn't handle being alone for five minutes. Even if Eliot doesn't realise it yet, Quentin is holding him back, preventing him from achieving. Quentin's internal monologue is ramping up to adding another reason to the list of 'why Quentin needs to give Eliot a good excuse to leave him' when Eliot says "shush inner Q, I want outer Q to say something." He's playing with a lock of Quentin's hair and looking at him with such fondness that it makes Quentin feel even sicker. 

"Outer Q wants to know if you've been possessed by a real adult." Quentin jokes, diverting the conversation away from his anxieties. Eliot laughs, "nope. No real adults here, but a year after you graduate Brakebills takes away the graduate money. I have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle." Quentin raises his eyebrows, "did you become accustomed to that when you the king of shit or after?" Eliot makes an affronted noise, "oh long before that Q." Eliot lifts his arm up and Quentin happily slots himself in next to him. Eliot kisses the top of Quentin's head, then says "You want to get up and face the day babe?" Quentin scowls, "no." Eliot laughs and shakes his head, "You want to stay in bed with me forever?" Quentin nods furiously and kisses Eliot's cheek, "Yep," 

Eliot rolls his eyes, "As much as I'd like to. You have medicine to take, and my body thinks it's 2pm, so I am starving." Quentin narrows his eyes, "you've been googling." He accuses playfully, "Well yes, I can google lots of things. I'm adept at research. I have two degrees, you know." Eliot preens, "and Google has told me that meds work better if you take them at roughly the same time every day and I know you take yours when you wake up so …" Quentin frowns. Something in him is niggling, saying that he doesn't want Eliot to know when he takes his pills, doesn't want Eliot to have anything to do with his broken brain. This is his thing for him to fix alone. Quentin buries the thought, he can come back to that later. He stretches up and kisses Eliot, a soft, delicate kiss where his hand just lightly brushes the side of Eliot's face. 

He can feel Eliot smiling against his mouth. Eliot runs his hand along the side of Quentin's body, and Quentin pulls away violently. The sick feeling is back with a vengeance. He'd forgotten about what he looked like, about the weird new friction of Eliot's hands against his rolls of fat. He pushes his legs off the bed, and he's standing awkwardly at the edge of the room. Was Eliot really attracted to him or was he just saying that because he's worried Quentin will break if he's left? Before the buzzing in his brain can devolve into a full-blown panic attack Eliot's got hold of both of his hands and says, "I love the enthusiasm, Coldwater, but I was quite enjoying kissing you." Eliot stands up, cups Quentin's face in his hands and kisses him. Quentin melts, he lets his shoulders relax, but doesn't let himself press his body to Eliot's as he wants to. He's grateful that Eliot has clocked what he's feeling but chosen not to instigate a big talk right now. Thankful, that even when he's standing exposed in his too small, too old, ugly pyjamas Eliot still wants to kiss him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly just some soft smut. This is the first sex scene I've ever written so be nice <3

Eliot 

Once the spells and the worksheets are done, and Eliot’s finally handed over the last of his Paris work. Eliot and Quentin have a few weeks to find an unsteady equilibrium. They wake up at 8. Quentin takes his pills, and more often than not, they end up convincing each other to go back to bed. They stay there wrapped up in each other until they’re forced to get up by hunger. There are no quests right now, or if there are, they ignore them. Alice is doing something with the library, and Kady has her hedgewitch project. Julia’s got something going on, and obviously, Margo has the whole of Fillory to deal with. None of that matters for Quentin and Eliot. For right now, their only quest is getting better and loving each other. At first, Quentin objected to this. He didn’t like being treated as so breakable. He wanted to feel useful. Now every day Eliot gets to remind him that he’s done his questing, he’s been the hero. He’s allowed to enjoy just existing for a little bit. That’s easier to do when Eliot is there.   
Eliot is the king of enjoying existing. He’s made it into an art, the delicate craft of working very hard to seem as if you find life so easy and so enjoyable that you could choose to be bored mindless by it. They start the task that they abandoned back in Quentin’s first year, when the beast interrupted their lives, the quest of teaching Quentin how to live effortlessly.   
Quentin’s teaching Eliot things too, not that Quentin realises it or that he would take the credit if he did. He’s teaching him how to care a little more, how to be so enthusiastic about something that it hurts, how to love completely without fear of humiliation. Even how to kind of enjoy the embarrassment. Quentin thinks that he’s got Eliot to care about Star Trek and Harry Potter, he’s wrong. Eliot cares about Quentin and Quentin cares about those things. When Quentin is in Eliot’s arms, rambling about the relevance of a specific episode of Doctor Who to the broader canon; Eliot’s convinced he’s conned his way into heaven. He’s also discovered the brilliant game of pretending not to know basic stuff about Quentin’s nerdy passions.   
He’s doing that now, pretending that he doesn’t understand why Harry can’t just Accio Ron and Hermione out from the lake in the second task. “I’m an actual magician, I think I’d know better how to do this than some terf-y monster.” He’s saying through laughter.  
“It doesn’t work like that! Magic has rules!” Quentin’s fighting back, he pauses the film and sits cross-legged on the bed. Eliot smiles and leans back on the cushions at the top of the bed. Mission achieved, Quentin will talk about this for hours, and Eliot gets to watch him.   
“I know magic has rules, magic has math. I don’t think any of these Hogwarts nerds can count.” Eliot pokes the dragon.  
Quentin takes a deep breath, “well yes, that’s a flaw. There’s arithmancy, but I think that might be magical maths? Or maybe nothing to do with maths at all. Hermione takes it as an elective in third year and then it’s like never mentioned again. I also don’t think wizards go to elementary school, so I’m not sure exactly how they learn to spell and shit. But it’s a kids book remember?”   
“Oh, I thought the final few books were basically young adult fiction, which is why it’s cool for you to be so into them?” Eliot smirks.   
Quentin’s mouth moves silently for a moment, gotcha. “No, well, yes. They deal with some adult themes, okay? But as an eleven-year-old, you don’t want to get into magic school and then find out you’ve still got to math. That would like really suck.”   
“Mmmmm, like it really sucked to get into Brakebills?”  
“well that was different, I’d already put the work in. I got math, I liked it. It was fun to apply it to circumstances. I don’t think I’d have liked it nearly so much if I was still learning trig.”  
“Oh, I see. It’s okay for Harry Potter not to have math because he’s not as smart as you?” Eliot reaches out for Quentin, taking hold of his hand and gently winding him towards him.  
“That’s not what I said.” Quentin whines.  
“But you are smarter than Harry, right? You’ve got to be, this boy is an idiot.” Eliot says as he wraps his arms around Quentin, plants a kiss to the top of his head.   
“he is not known for his intelligence that is true.” Quentin says with a little laugh, “but neither am I really. I’m not exactly good at magic El, not like you.”   
Eliot frowns, but keeps his voice light. “it’s very mean and sneaky of you to wrap a self insult in a compliment like that. You know I’m a sucker for praise.”   
Quentin giggles, “I win this round?”   
Eliot pushes Quentin away from him a little, so he can see Quentin’s face, “take it back.” He says seriously.  
Quentin splutters and rolls his eyes then gets a slight smirk and says “I’m not good at magic, and neither are you.”   
Eliot raises his eyebrows, “try again.” Quentin shakes his head and says quickly, “we’re both good at magic.” Eliot smiles, another win of the day. 

Before Eliot has time to crow, Quentin, is surging forward and kissing him, pushing the pair of them back onto the bed. This is new. Quentin’s straddling his hips, his hands splayed out across Eliot’s chest. Quentin sits up, “You’re so bossy.”  
Eliot laughs, “am I now?” Quentin leans in, and Eliot is finding his dick start to swell at the pressure from Quentin straddling him. Eliot’s hands go to Quentin’s waist.   
“Yes, you’re very controlling,” Quentin says playfully, then he kisses Eliot again. Eliot’s hands grip Quentin’s hips, his fingers making dents in the flesh there. Quentin flinches, and Eliot pulls his hands away. He’d forgotten that Quentin still doesn’t get how hot he is.   
“Sorry,” Eliot says, expecting Quentin to jump off him, he tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.   
They haven’t done anything more than kissing since Eliot got back from Paris and the secretive wanking while Quentin’s in the shower is only doing so much. He misses fucking his boyfriend, but he can’t let Quentin know that. He doesn’t want to push him, not when he’s doing so well. Not when Eliot is trying so hard to avoid being at all monsterlike. He knows that Quentin says that he’s not afraid of Eliot, but he must be - a bit. Julia’s scared of him, Alice too even if they try to hide their fear behind smiles and busyness. Eliot would never say it, but being gentle and continually trying to be entirely Eliot and not at all the monster is kind of exhausting. In a previous life, when Quentin flincheds Eliot would have held him down and insisted on kissing all of the parts Quentin hates. He’d obviously have ensured consent, but he would have made sure to show Quentin just how much he loves him. He’d have forced him to love himself too - if not for how hot Quentin himself is at least for how hot he makes Eliot. Eliot can’t do that now. He can’t be too forward, needs Quentin to call the shots, just in case the monster made him do anything that Eliot hasn’t been told about.   
But Quentin isn’t jumping away from him, he’s still straddling him, and he’s... grinding down onto him? Quentin takes Eliot’s hands and pins them down at his sides. Oh. This is - a really fucking good compromise. Ha, compromise, like Eliot is at all not desperate to be dommed every once in a while. Quentin leans forward, his hands tightening around the bones of Eliot’s wrists.   
“You gotta behave El,” He breathes, before kissing Eliot again. 

Eliot relaxes under Quentin’s grip, something about the pressure against his wrists and the weight of his boyfriend across his hips has majorly fucked with his brain’s processing power. Quentin smiles at the slightly glazed look in Eliot’s eyes. “fuck. I knew you were into this, but I didn’t think you’d go down so quickly.” He says, a hint of awe creeping into his voice. Eliot closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in and then out again. This needs to be discussed. Against the express wishes of every nerve in his body, he makes himself struggle free of Quentin’s grip. Quentin folds quickly, understanding the nonverbal cue. Quentin sits himself down next to Eliot. “How did you know? Beyond spending a lifetime fucking me, of course.” Eliot asks, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Quentin.  
“I saw you in the observatory.” Quentin’s blushing, now that the magic of that moment is broken he’s turned back into the awkward boy Eliot saw that first day at Brakebills. Eliot raises an eyebrow, and Quentin continues eyes fixed to the bedsheets. “You were… there was a first-year, and you had to suck his dick for chores or something. I was kind of jealous.” Quentin mumbles. Oh my god. They could have been fucking all of this time, Eliot allows himself to imagine a fantasy of all of the lost moments, he could have had Quentin in that observatory. But then would they have had this? He could have ruined it, it’s not like any of those boys had stuck around.   
“So what made you want to follow up on this now?” He asks carefully, sure the fact that he treated those boys as disposable may have been why they didn’t stick around, but he can’t totally discount that maybe it’s because he Eliot Waugh is an insufferable human who only manages to get people to be with him because of his massive dick. He can’t let Quentin discover that he’s actually a terrible person who isn’t totally in control all the time.  
Quentin smiles, “You’ve been working really hard to make me feel okay. I wanted to do something for you.”   
“Baby, you don’t have to do this.”   
“I want to do this. I want to get you out of your head for a bit like you’ve done for me.”  
“But you…” Eliot doesn’t want to say it, “you haven’t been exactly … pro having a body lately.” He says delicately, trying to encompass all of Quentin’s recent behavior in a phrase that hopefully won’t led to the two of them never having sex again. He dances around the way Quentin avoids looking in mirrors except to spend hours twisting and turning and pinching his fat, the way Quentin eats nothing all day, despite prompting, and then eats everything he can get his hands on. The way after these binges Quentin inevitably goes to bed early and doesn’t speak to Eliot until coaxed out of bed in the morning with coffee and kisses. The way Quentin flinches everytime Eliot touches him in slightly the wrong place and the way he seems surprised by hateful of the natural limitations of his body. Eliot remembers walking in on Quentin struggling to do a piece of magic and trying to explain that his tut was off because fingers don’t bend like that and the spell needed to be rewritten. He remembers how pissed Quentin had been that his body was holding him back, not because of any weight gain,but just by the sheer fact that it was a body. From the way Quentin swallows and looks away from a moment Eliot knows that he’s somehow managed to convey all of that in his clumsy words.

Quentin looks back at Eliot, his face set in determination.“Yeah that’s true, but I think weirdly this might help? If I’m totally in control of how you touch me? I also don’t have to, like, be naked or anything.” Quentin says, his confidence fading throughout the sentence. Eliot has a very distressing internal argument over whether he would rather Quentin was standing over him, only his dick visible, feeding it into Eliot’s mouth , while he’s naked and vulnerable. Or if it’s better to be able to see Quentin’s entire body, to be able to kiss across his chest, bite into the exposed skin of his inner thighs.   
“I also saw the way you reacted when I held you down, because you tickled me.” Quentin says slyly , clearly given a new burst of confidence by the way Eliot’s face had pinched in his internal debate.   
“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks!” Eliot accuses.   
“We just established I’ve been thinking about this for years El.” Quentin says.   
“Fine, but you’ve been specifically thinking about it for weeks!” Eliot pouts.  
Quentin leans in close and whispers “Should I make you wait longer for it?” Who is this man, and what has he done with anxious, adorable, embarrassed Quentin Coldwater? As if reading his mind, the persona drops and Quentin laughs then says in that self-deprecating way of his, scrunching up his shoulders with no regard for the integrity of his spine, “I like the idea of not having to be myself for a bit… my head’s not the most fun place right now.” He says.  
“Well then, allow me to help get you out of it.” Eliot says in delight. 

Quentin bites his lip, then looks back at the sheets again, “I’m just gonna, go get changed into…” Eliot frowns at the look of shame that crosses his boyfriend’s face.   
“What’s up?” He asks, cupping Quentin’s chin with his hand.   
Quentin nuzzles into his touch and then says very quietly, “I want to look good for you, but I don’t exactly have nice clothes that fit me at the moment. I don’t want you to be grossed out.” Eliot shakes his head slowly and pulls Quentin into a hug, he places their foreheads together. “you could never gross me out Q.” Quentin looks at him disbelievingly. “But if you’d be happier I don’t have to see anything.” Eliot reaches out and telepathically feels through his tie drawer. He pulls out a silky purple one and floats it over to the bed. 

Quentin reaches out and picks up the tie, he runs it between his hands, letting the material slide from one hand to the other. Eliot’s mouth has gone dry watching him. “ You’d be into this?” Quentin asks, looking from the tie to Eliot.   
“ My boyfriend blindfolding me so I can suck his dick? Yeah Q, I think I’d be into that.” Eliot says, looking into Quentin’s eyes. Somehow in the space of a few seconds, he’s desperately turned on and can’t think of anything but putting his mouth somewhere, anywhere, on Quentin’s body. Quentin laughs, and Eliot can’t hold himself back anymore. He practically lunches for Quentin’s face in a way he would be embarrassed by if it hadn’t been more than four months since they’ve fucked. Quentin laughs and lets Eliot kiss him.

The two of them tumble back onto the bed, Quentin’s hands wrapping around Eliot’s back as Eliot’s tongue licks against his lips. Quentin opens his mouth in response, and Eliot cannot get enough of the taste of him. The kiss is wet and messy with their teeth clacking together, but neither one of them is complaining. Finally, when Eliot is unashamedly grinding against Quentin’s knee - which to be fair, Quentin did push between his legs - Quentin gently pushes him away. He holds him at arms-length, and the sparkle in his eyes goes straight to Eliot’s cock. 

In a rough, sultry voice, Quentin says, “ What did I say about behaving El?” Eliot’s mouth is hanging a little way open, and he can’t think in response to that. The part of his brain that seems to have been given over entirely to caring at Quentin prompts him to say something. Eliot’s not sure what it was before, school work, pretending not to know about farming? It doesn’t matter. “ Do you have a safeword?” Eliot asks.  
Quentin nods, the confident mask drops, and he’s all cute and embarrassed again, “ I thought we could just use a stop for today? Like I can use the traffic light system if you’d like, but I don’t want to be playing at one of us not being into it?” Quentin’s hand has gone to his shoulder, rubbing at the muscle there anxiously. Eliot is overcome by a wave of fondness, he says very quietly, “Thank you for asking for what you need Q. We can use stop, and just so you know if I’m not asking you to stop I’m very very into this.” His voice turns low in that last sentence. Eliot is pleased by the way Quentin’s eyes widen, the slight part of his lips and especially the way the tip of his tongue pokes out to wet them. “ Do you want to begin?” Eliot asks, knowing that Quentin will feel happier with the express knowledge that Eliot wants this. Quentin nods and grins. “ Yeah.” He says, “ stand up.” 

Eliot obeys and stands up next to the bed. Quentin walks behind him, “close your eyes,” and ties the tie tight around his face. When Eliot blinks his eyes open, there’s not even a crack of light shining through. He’s totally dependent on Quentin, can’t move without fear of hitting something unless Quentin tells him how to. “Does that feel okay?” Quentin asks, a hint of concern in his voice. Eliot nods, “ it feels great Q.” 

He feels soft lips against his neck, gentle breathing, making the hairs there stand up on end. Eliot lists into Quentin and Quentin sucks the skin on his neck between his teeth. Eliot hisses in pain, but he can feel his cock getting heavier. Eliot can hear Quentin chuckle as he walks around Eliot’s body. Quentin’s kissing him and the surprise of it makes Eliot moan, his hands come up to cup Quentin’s face, and he can feel Quentin smile against his lips. Quentin takes Eliot’s hands in his own and pulls away. Quentin pulls his hands down so that they’re hanging down at his sides. “ No touching.” He chastises gently, “ Can you take off your clothes for me now?”

Eliot nods and unbuttons his shirt, Quentin’s there to take it when he shakes it off his shoulders, Eliot can hear him place it gently on the bed. He’s there when Eliot needs him to balance while he takes his trousers, pants and socks off. For Eliot, it feels like Quentin is tuned in to his every need, but in reality, it’s more likely Quentin can just see him wobbling around. When Eliot’s fully naked, his cock hard and exposed, Quentin takes hold of his wrists again and gently pulls them behind his back. “ Do you think you can keep your hands here, or do I need to tie you up?” Eliot nods, swallowing raggedly. “Good boy,” Quentin says into his ear, he runs his tongue along Eliot’s neck, and it makes Eliot shiver. “ Get on your knees,” Quentin says, biting gently at the shell of Eliot’s ear. 

With Quentin’s hand around his arm, helping him, Eliot lowers himself to the ground and kneels there, his hands resting in the small of his back. He can hear Quentin walking around him, then a hand under his chin, pushing it up. “ You comfy?” Quentin asks.  
Eliot smiles, “ yeah, Q, I’m perfect.” 

Quentin’s fingers move, so he’s stroking Eliot’s face, “ yeah, you are.” Eliot leans into the gentle touch. They stay there for a few breaths, Eliot just feeling cared for, loved in this one point of contact. “ Do you want to suck my dick now?” Quentin’s voice is low, dirty. His thumb traces Eliot’s lip, pulling his lower lip down gently. Eliot allows his mouth to fall open, tastes Quentin’s thumb eagerly. “ I’m going to need an answer, El.” God, where did this man come from?   
“ Yes Quentin, I’d fucking love to suck your dick now,” Eliot says, trying to sound relaxed when his whole body is coiled up, desperate. 

“ Okay, I’ll give it to you now,” Quentin says, and Eliot can’t miss the slight nervous tremor in his voice. He hears Quentin’s pants hit the floor and then Quentin’s hand is cupping his face, gently tilting his head forward. Then the warm head of Quentin’s cock is pushing gently against Eliot’s lips. Eliot opens his lips slowly. He licks forward to taste the tip. He moans at the taste of it but restrains himself from pushing forward to take it into his mouth. Quentin’s in control here.   
As Quentin pushes his head between Eliot’s lips, any tension in Eliot’s body evaporates, along with any idea that he should seem relaxed. All Eliot feels in that moment is Quentin’s hot cock in his mouth, all he cares about is drawing out more of those sweet sounds. He swirls his tongue around Quentin’s cock. He is rewarded with a soft moan and Quentin’s hips thrusting himself further into Eliot’s mouth. 

Eliot moans around him and swallows. Quentin’s hand finds it’s way into Eliot’s hair and tugs gently. Eliot hollows out his cheeks and bobs up and down on Quentin’s dick, loving the fullness when he’s down to the base, but chasing the pain of Quentin pulling on his hair when he pulls away. Before long Quentin is fucking shallowly into Eliot’s mouth. He’s making soft panting noises, and his hand in Eliot’s hair is tightening. Eliot moans and pushes forward, taking all of Quentin into his mouth and sucking then pulling back to let his dick, almost fall out of his mouth. He licks a stripe along the underside, then licks up and around Quentin’s foreskin, pushing it back to lave over the sensitive skin there. He can feel Quentin shaking, knows he’s got to be close. Eliot pulls off Quentin’s dick and says roughly, “ if you want to, you can fuck my face.” He’s only just got the words out when Quentin makes an unintelligible noise and forces his mouth back onto his dick. “ El, my god.” He’s trying to say something, probably about how Eliot can’t just say shit like that, but his words keep getting lost in his moans. Eliot relaxes his jaw and lets Quentin fuck into him with little staccato jolts. Every time Quentin pulls out Eliot chases him with his mouth, as desperate for Quentin to come as Quentin is. Then Quentin’s actually pulling on his hair, holding him away from his cock, “ Where do you want me to come?” He’s asking in a strained voice that tells Eliot he’s barely holding on. Eliot doesn’t say anything, just pushes forward to take Quentin fully into his mouth. As he fights Quentin's hold on his hair, he creates sharp bursts of pain along his scalp. Quentin gets the message and thrusts into Eliot’s mouth, using his hair to pull him off and then roughly back on again. Within a few seconds, he’s coming, hot liquid flooding Eliot’s mouth. Eliot swallows around Quentin’s softening dick, and Quentin lets out an overstimulated moan. Gently Eliot pulls away, letting Quentin’s dick fall from his mouth. He misses it. 

Eliot can hear Quentin pulling his pants up, then feels gently hands untying the blindfold. Eliot blinks in the sudden light, he’s grateful to find that Quentin left the lights dim from the film, so it’s not too jarring. Quentin gently pulls Eliot to his feet and Eliot’s looking at his perfect post-orgasm face. His bottom lip is swollen, bleeding a little from where Quentin had been biting it to stop from yelling. Eliot feels a sense of pride. Quentin takes his hands from behind his back and gently pulls them forward. Suddenly reminded that he can move Eliot rolls his shoulders, he winces a little at their stiffness. Quentin’s pulling him down for a kiss, Eliot still soft from subbing kisses him back gently, tenderly. 

When they pull apart, Eliot realises he’s lost his hard-on. Quentin notices too, and a deep frown appears on his face. “ shit, El, was that not good for you?”   
Eliot forces himself to swim up from the comfy haze he’s inhabiting. “ It was amazing for me, Q,” He says with a smile, “ who knew you could dom?”   
Quentin’s blushing, but the frown is still there, “ then why, um... “ He trails off, looking down at Eliot’s dick again. Quentin's face is bright red, and he's wrapped his arms around his body. Hiding again.

Eliot realises what’s happening, “ It’s nothing to do with you. Believe me, I am painfully attracted to you. I got what I needed from the scene.” Eliot sits down on the bed and motions for Quentin to join him. Reluctantly Quentin does, and Eliot wraps his arms around him, “ You were right, I just needed to get out of my own head for a bit. I had a great time, and believe me they’ll be plenty more opportunities for you to get me off in the future.” Quentin laughs, and Eliot feels him relax against him. Quentin shifts around to kiss Eliot. Eliot smiles against his lips and lets himself fall back into that quiet space where he doesn’t need to be Eliot Waugh. “ can we cuddle for a bit?” Eliot asks against Quentin’s lips. Quentin nods, and soon enough Eliot is lying on Quentin’s chest, having his hair stroked and not having to think at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot takes Q shopping, but with way more angst. This one contains some minor self harm and description of unhealthy dieting behaviors.  
> Sorry this chapter is so short, my mental health has been unfriendly lately, but I wanted to get something out this week <3

Eliot is staring intently at Quentin from across the living room. Quentin looks behind him then rubs at his cheek in case there’s something on his face. When Eliot smirks, Quentin puts all of his attention on his, horrible, bland, not filling the hole adjacent to his stomach, salad and tries to ignore him. When he looks up again, Eliot is still staring at him. “Do I have my fly undone or something?” Quentin asks abruptly. He panics, what if he does have his fly undone? He checks. He realises he’s wearing sweatpants; having given up on the monumental task of squeezing into his jeans every day. Quentin sighs and pushes the bowl of salad away from him. There’s no point trying he’s too fat for his clothes anyway. Quentin pulls his knees up to his chest, protecting his swollen stomach from view. 

“I was thinking,” Eliot starts, wandering over to sit on the coffee table in front of Quentin.  
“yes..?” Quentin slowly replies when Eliot is thinking things it usually means either some new sexual fantasy - good - or some long boring thing he only gets through because Eliot enjoys it - bad. “I want to take you shopping.”  
Quentin groans. Both, it’s both. Eliot both wants to subject him to hours of wandering around shops choosing between identical fabrics, and he’s going to get off on dressing Quentin up.  
“No.,” Quentin says flatly, he picks up his book from the arm of the sofa and pretends to read, hoping that Eliot will drop the subject. 

No such luck, Eliot continues talking as if he knows Quentin couldn’t ignore him. The bastard. “No, hear me out. I won’t force you into a suit or anything. Even if I do think you’d be really hot in one.”  
Quentin looks up and raises an eyebrow, “So I’m not hot now?”  
Eliot rolls his eyes, “Even hotter Quentin.” He enunciates each syllable and makes eye contact with Quentin, “You do not understand the power you have over me.”  
Quentin smirks, remembering how he’d taken Eliot apart with his mouth last night, “Oh, I think maybe I do.” Eliot bites his lip at the memory then reshuffles his face. There’s no escape from this conversation with sex. Usually, that works, shit.  
“No, Q, I think. I mean this in a loving way.” Quentin tenses up, Eliot continues “I think it would be good to get you some clothes that fit.” 

Quentin splutters, he feels that shame taking over him again. Eliot’s noticed, of course, he’s noticed how could he not have? Eliot knows that the salads aren’t working, that he’s still gaining weight, that in a matter of months, weeks, hours he’s going to be a whale who needs fork-lifting out of their apartment. He knew that this blip of time where Eliot is into him was just that. A blip. A bubble, a honeymoon period. Now that Eliot’s actually spent some time around him, seen him eat, had to deal with how little of the duvet Quentin is willing to share in bed - a bit of Quentin’s consciousness pipes up, to point out that Quentin has never been exactly good at sharing duvets - Eliot’s going to leave him.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Eliot says flatly, and Quentin is so taken aback that his spiralling stops.  
“Have you been learning psychic magic?” Quentin accuses.  
Eliot chuckles, “No, I just know you very well.” He says fondly. “Hear me out, okay? I think that you are absolutely gorgeous, stunning, the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet” Quentin rolls his eyes, but inside he glows. “But, I see the way you look at your wardrobe every day and how long you spend looking at yourself in the mirror.” Quentin makes a mental note to resign his daily self-hatred ritual to the bathroom. “I think it would be really good for you to get you some clothes that fit and that make you feel good. Your clothes, no input from me. Except telling you how hot you look and maybe helping you take them off again.”  
“I have clothes,” Quentin says, tugging at his sweater sleeves. 

Eliot wrinkles his nose, “you have those clothes, come on. Let me get you a pair of jeans that’ll show off your butt.” He cajoles and takes hold of Quentin’s hand, his thumb rubbing little smoothing circles. Quentin can tell he isn’t going to win this one, he groans and tips forward into Eliot’s lap. Above him, Eliot’s chest rumbles in a laugh.  
“One pair of jeans, and maybe some T-shirts,” Quentin grumbles into Eliot’s thigh. 

That’s how Quentin finds himself in a Uniqlo changing room holding a billion different variations of shirts and four different sizes of jeans because he honestly has no idea what size he is now and when Eliot suggested measuring him he almost passed out there and then. Quentin stares at himself in the mirror, why the fuck do they make these tiny torture chambers of mirrors? There should be special ugly changing rooms, for people who only want to see one side of their body at a time. Eliot’s waiting outside, if Quentin takes too long, he’ll be all sweet and loving and remind Quentin how much he doesn’t fucking deserve him. 

Quentin sets his jaw and pulls off his sweater and sweatpants. He can’t help himself from pinching the belt of fat around his stomach in his hands, lifting it up and releasing it, so it jiggles satisfyingly. He grabs some of the flesh around his hips, lets the fat slip through his fingers until he’s just holding onto the skin. He pinches it until it stings, digs in his nails until there’s a tiny red mark. Quentin closes his eyes and breathes in the painful sensation; he deserves this. He breathes out and opens his eyes, that calm fog settling over him again. It’ll stay just for long enough for him to put on these clothes without having an actual panic attack. 

He picks out a burgundy T-shirt and pulls it on. It’s comfortingly baggy, not clinging to his skin like all of his other clothes—the second from the largest size of jeans they picked outfit. Not perfectly, not like his old jeans used to, but he knows that that’s just because they’re new. The denim’s stiff, so even though the trousers fit he imagines, he can feel the material digging in. Trying not to look at himself in the mirror, he pushes the curtain aside and walks out to the main dressing room. 

Eliot’s leaning against the other wall, texting somebody, Margo probably. Quentin doesn’t want to imagine what he’s saying to her. Margo’s probably congratulating him for staying with such a fatass. When he notices, Quentin Eliot grins, and Quentin does a sarcastic little twirl. “You look amazing. How do they feel?” Eliot asks.  
Quentin shrugs and says “alright, I guess? I think I’d still rather be in sweat pants, but I like the T-shirts.” Under Eliot’s sickeningly fond gaze Quentin blushes, wraps his arms around his stomach. “I’m gonna -” He mumbles and gestures back towards the dressing room. Eliot nods and returns to his texting.

On their way home Eliot’s extra tactile, he keeps nudging their bodies together. Quentin supposes in the past; he’d have found it endearing, romantic even. Right now it just feels like Eliot can’t walk straight. Quentin says as much. He isn’t entirely okay with the amount of pleasure he gets from the way Eliot’s face falls.  
“Sorry, I just - sorry,” Eliot says, taking a few steps backwards. He takes out his cigarette case and lights up a cigarette with a delicate little tut. When Quentin holds his hand out Eliot rolls his eyes, but lights another for Quentin.  
When Quentin takes the cigarette, he realises they’re long vogues. He raises an eyebrow at Eliot, who just shrugs and says “if you click the top it tastes like blueberries.” Quentin does so. It does taste like blueberries if you concentrated them down to pure sugar then rolled that syrup in an ashtray then bleached the resultant mess. Quentin coughs and makes a face. “I thought flavoured cigarettes were for ‘normies’” He says, making air quotes.  
“I have never once said normies and I believe what I said was that menthols are gross,” Eliot replied.  
“You actually made me quit menthols when you smoke blueberry vogues?” Quentin teases, feeling a little more relaxed.  
“I didn’t make you give anything up; it’s not my fault that you wanted to impress me, and anyway I’ve got to replace my need for eating my feelings somehow,” Eliot says lightly. Still, the ease Quentin had been feeling dissipates immediately. Of course, Eliot knows about the secret eating; the way food seems to shut up his brain when nothing else can. Sure Eliot may have had his fair share of comfort substance abuse in the past, but he was never fat. Quentin is sure that Eliot was totally in control every time he used a crate of beer or a chocolate bar to settle his frantic mind. Not like Quentin, stupid, out of control, greedy, fat, Quentin. It makes sense that Eliot would be trying to give him tips on food avoidance. 

Eliot frowns and snakes his arm around Quentin’s waist. Quentin pulls away under the pretense of needing to relight his cigarette. Suddenly he needs to get as far away from his boyfriend as he can, but he’s not going to go somewhere to eat this time. He’s had enough food today; maybe he just needs to find somewhere to chain smoke - satisfy his oral fixation that way. “I think I’m gonna um,” Fuck. Under Eliot’s worried frown Quentin falters, can’t think of a good excuse, “library.” Quentin blurts out, “I, um… I want to see if they’ve got this new - er - book.” Good one Quentin, great excuse, very specific.  
“Oh, cool, I can come with you. Despite popular belief, I don’t burst into flames every time I enter a place of learning.” Eliot says, and Quentin’s heart hurts at the self-deprecating joke, the slight twinge of unsureness in Eliot’s tone.  
“No I … it’ll be boring for you, and I’m sure there’s - other shopping you want to do?” Quentin says backing away as if Eliot is a wild animal and not his slightly concerned boyfriend. Eliot looks as if he’s about to argue and then seems to deflate on himself a little.  
“see you back at the apartment,” Eliot says, dejectedly. Quentin nods then hurries away. 

He keeps walking until he’s come to a bodega, goes in, buys a pack of menthols because fuck blueberry boy’s judgement. He doesn’t stop smoking until he gets to the library, because now he has to produce a book when he gets home. Quentin knows how this works, he can seem weird and anxious, but he can’t be seen as lying. He remembers the way Eliot’s mind had immediately jumped to self-harm. He remembers the hushed conversation Julia had had with his dad after they’d found out he’d been going for runs instead of being at chess club. Which really? He’s a nerd, but he’s not that nerdy. His maudlin jogs around the city had become substantially less fun when he had Julia there on suicide watch. Suddenly it was all sprints and positive thinking and “we should sign up for a marathon Q. We could raise money for MIND!”. Fuck that shit. Quentin chuckles at the idea of what they’d say this time, would he be entered into a competitive eating contest this time around? Or is there no way to twist binge eating into a healthy coping mechanism? 

Quentin picks up the first fantasy book he sees and spends the rest of the day, smoking the rest of his cigarettes and wandering around the city. He ends up picking up a couple of comic issues he missed. By the time he gets back to the apartment, he’s got a light wallet and a pleasingly empty stomach. The fact that he’s managed to go most of the day with only a few bites of salad makes him feel strong, numbs out his emotions in a way that feels better than the way depression typically numbs him. Instead of feeling like he’s buried under a thick muffling blanket with his feelings sat on top, suffocating him; Quentin feels as if he’s floating above his emotional state - far enough above it not to feel anything. 

When he gets in Eliot is curled up on the sofa with Margo. They stop talking when Quentin enters, and his newfound good mood disappears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys get a bit closer to happiness but expect a sequel bc gifts do not cure depression (unfortunately). <3

Chapter 5 

Quentin takes a few nervous steps into the flat, "hello?" Margo gives Eliot a pointed look and whispers something that makes him smirk. The way they're both looking at him reminds Quentin of first year like they're sharks and he's an unlucky fish who's wandered away from the reef. He awkwardly shifts his weight from foot to foot while Eliot whispers something to Margo that makes her frown. She squeezes his shoulder, yet again whispers something to him and disappears into her bedroom. 

Eliot pats the sofa next to him expectantly and Quentin groans. Can they not, for once go a full day without needing to have a big chat? Quentin debates demanding to know what they were saying, clearly they were talking about him and it's not unheard of for Eliot and Margo to bitch about someone who's in the room with them; but it's never happened to Quentin before, not really. He thinks better of it, if Eliot wants to talk about him behind his back then so be it. It seems like he wants to speak to Quentin now anyway and Quentin isn't going to step straight into some bullshit trap. 

When he sits down, Eliot wraps his arms around Quentin's body, buries his face in Quentin's hair. The touch is gentle, not rubbing or pressing - precisely the right amount of pressure that it doesn't prompt Quentin to have a panic attack. Quentin can't help but laugh at the weirdness of it. A deflecting soft of a laugh like this softness catches him off guard. He was expecting to walk into a fight, but this is just love? Eliot's smelling his hair for god's sake. 

Finally, Eliot speaks up, "When you were at the library, I got a gift for you," He says into Quentin's ear before he plants little kisses along his neck. Quentin turns around to squint at Eliot, "you're not mad at me?" He says before he can think better of it. They did promise to be honest with each other, Quentin should as least try to be frank a third of the time.  
"what?" Eliot asks incredulously, "why would I be mad at you?"  
Quentin picks at his cuticles, avoiding looking at his boyfriend, who's waiting patiently for a reply.  
When it becomes clear that Eliot's not going to accept silence for an answer, Quentin looks up at him. He's expecting that same tender, compassionate, oh so adoring, but oh so scared face that Eliot has been giving him every time regularly since he got back from the hospital. But Eliot looks angry, not properly mad, but pissed off for sure. Quentin is a little bit relieved, at least this is an emotion he deserves. He sets his jaw, then says, with a confidence that only comes out when he's being self-destructive or saving people - not that recently there's been much difference -. "Because I'm a fat piece of shit who demands your attention and then storms off when you offer me a blueberry cigarette."  
Eliot's eyebrow flies up his face, and his mouth opens in surprise. "what you weren't expecting me to say what I'm fucking feeling? We're honest, remember. I'd appreciate if you did the same for me, instead of this fake fucking 'I love you no matter how you act and what you look like' bullshit" Quentin spits, enjoying the way the words flow out of his mouth. Why is it that depression makes it so hard to get on a roll with anything positive but the minute you start running your mouth it digs its claws in and releases all that emotion it's been keeping locked up.  
Eliot looks bemused, "I don't - Q - I wasn't - "His eyes are running up and down Quentin's face in a way that makes him want to hide. Then Eliot's laughing, a surprised not entirely joyless laugh that forces Quentin to join in. "I had no idea you hated blueberries so much," Eliot says finally.  
"I hate blueberries in cigarettes," Quentin says playfully, grateful for the break in the tension. "Sorry for being stupid."  
"Come here" Eliot leans back against the arm of the sofa. Quentin depends on his chest, and Eliot wraps his arms around Quentin then kisses his temple." you've got nothing to apologise for babe."  
Quentin laughs, the sort of laugh that emerges because your body doesn't know what else to do, that replaces words that could never say enough and tears that he doesn't want to cry.  
"speak to me honey," Eliot strokes his fingers up and down Quentin's arm, grounding him in the soft repetitive movement.  
"last time I spoke to you I yelled at you," Quentin's face crumples. He can feel it getting hot; he brings his palm up to his forehead and presses hard between his eyes - as if he can will his face to cooperate by sheer force. He can't.  
Eliot makes nonsense, soothing noises, "it's okay, I love you, just breathe" as he cries. Big wracking sobs that shake his body and leave him shivering. He keeps trying to talk and being interrupted by them.  
Eventually, the tears stop and Eliot floats a glass of water over to him. Quentin drains it thirstily then lies back down on Eliot's chest, overcome with that shivery exhaustion you get when you release weeks worth of emotion all at once. But he can't sleep, he's not alone crying into his pillow, he has to speak to Eliot.  
He pushes himself upright so he can look at Eliot. "I'm sorry. I just don't - don't get why you love me, and I know," Quentin has to stop to breath, swallow, how can there be more tears? He shouldn't have drunk the water, at least dehydration means he can't cry. "I know that you do, but I just - I don't deserve it." When Eliot opens his mouth to speak Quentin cuts in, "No - you - you don't need to convince me that I do. I think - I think I've been trying to convince you that I don't." At that Eliot envelopes Quentin in a tight hug, "I get it Q."  
"no, you don't" Quentin mumbles into Eliot's chest.  
"no Q, I do. Remember the mosaic?" Eliot asks carefully. Quentin knows that in actuality he's referring to after the mosaic, where he rejected Quentin and ultimately caused his death. Quentin feels a jab of pain at the memory, but he quickly smothers it by somehow hugging Eliot tighter. "Can we just agree that we deserve each other, however good or bad that makes us?" Eliot says firmly before kissing the top of Quentin's head. Quentin pulls away so he can look up at Eliot, "okay." He says his voice wavering, "can I see the gift you got me?"  
Eliot laughs again, and Quentin gives him a little self-deprecating smile. He kisses Quentin firmly. Short and sweet and filled with 'I'm here, I love you, I'm not leaving'. Then he reaches down to the side of the sofa and pulls up a bag. The bag is one of those fancy paper ones, with the clean crease lines, a logo Quentin doesn't recognise printed onto the side screams boutique. When he reaches out to take it Eliot holds it out of reach, "It's okay if this is too much, or you hate it. I have a gift receipt." Quentin frowns, and he swears he can feel the run-up his brain takes for this one. Whatever is in that bag has the potential to break him again, better prepare all his self insults now. But Eliot wouldn't do that - a gift is a gift, and Eliot is really good at gifts.  
Quentin ignores the low-level whirring of anxiety, the random interjections of terrible things that may be in the box. Eliot is extra, but it would be somehow weirder than the entirety of Fillory if this were some elaborate breakup scheme. "gimme" He reaches out for the bag.  
Eliot laughs and hands it over, "remind me to teach you decorum."  
"We were together for fifty years, and you never managed to get me to remember the difference between a napkin and a serviette."  
"The word napkin actually comes from a french word -" Eliot embarks on his, well-rehearsed in another life, speech about the intricacies of etiquette. Quentin would find it endearing, except he remembers Eliot telling him about why he learnt all this. This is Eliot's Fillory, his escape from the shitty world he was born in - if you learn the rules for another world perfectly, maybe one day they'll let you in. Quentin still wishes that Eliot never needed to escape into another world. As it is he's happy to let Eliot's words wash over him - after all, Eliot mostly lets him talk about Fillory. However, in recent memory it's a little less fondly and more 'is there a reason we'll be murdered/forced to marry/put on another goddamn quest' if we visit Margo? In the interests of the couple's newfound bubble of peace, Margo was visiting a lot and refusing to divulge anything about the political happenings of Fillory.  
With his heart fluttering in his chest - Quentin pulls apart the handles of the bag and peers in to see a mass of tissue paper. "Did you get this Love Actually wrapped?" He interrupts Eliot's lecture to say.  
When he looks up, Eliot is looking at him with unbridled delight "you've seen Love Actually?"  
"It's a classic."  
"Well yes, but often when you say classic you mean -" Eliot looks around for inspiration then waves a hand in the general direction of Quentin's comic book bag, "there's rarely not dragons."  
"There aren't any dragons in these, just time travel-"  
"And superpowers?"  
"well yes, but -"  
"You're such a predictable nerd; you know that?"  
"you were literally just surprised that I'd seen a classic Christmas movie."  
"You surprise in all the right ways,"  
Quentin rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the bag. He lifts the tissue paper out and carefully unfolds it. "oh." He looks up at Eliot and is surprised to see him worrying his lip between his teeth, a little furrow in his brow, "you want me to wear this?"  
"Only if you want to. I just thought," Eliot's adorable when he's nervous like this, wringing his hands and looking intently at Quentin's face to judge his reaction, but Quentin can't help but feel a pang of guilt. After all, he's the reason Eliot's anxious; he's hardly had the most rational responses lately.  
Quentin interrupts him, "I love it." He says with a broad smile that Eliot returns. Quentin feels a surge of relief at the laugh that bubbles out of Eliot. He recognises it as his 'surprised to be turned on but delighted by it' laugh.  
" I know you're not entirely comfy being naked around me," Eliot says carefully, and Quentin swallows down a feeling of shame. He puts the bodysuit down and instead takes Eliot's hand. This is good; his boyfriend just bought him lingerie for fuck's sake. He focuses his attention on the weight of Eliot's hand in his, the warmth, the slight roughness of Eliot's thumb passing across the back of Quentin's hand. At this moment, it stops him from spiralling, and Quentin ignores an embarrassingly proud feeling. He has been institutionalised too many times to congratulate himself for using a coping skill correctly. ", and the other day you said that you wanted to look good for me, but you didn't have anything. "  
"It's perfect." Quentin leans forward and kisses Eliot, then before they have a chance to get going he pulls away, leaving Eliot pouting. Quentin can tell he's having to resist pulling Quentin back to his mouth and holding him there. He feels a sharp pang of affection and gratefulness for this man who loves him so much and is so careful not to hurt him, but the blood rushing to his cock quickly overshadows the emotion. Maybe tonight's the night he asks Eliot to be a little less careful with him.  
"I'm going to try it on. See you in the bedroom?" Quentin asks. Eliot nods, that cat got the cream smile on his face again. Quentin loves that face, is warmed by having brought it back. As Quentin walks to the bathroom, he feels genuinely sexy for the first time in months.  
+  
The bodysuit has a hidden zip down the back so Quentin can step into it and pull it up his body without having to squeeze into it. He can't help but feel relief when he puts his arm through the armholes, although it's not zipped up he hasn't yet had to squish his flesh to get it over him. So far, so not reminded of the expansion of his body. He steels himself for the zip. He sucks in his stomach and contorts himself to yank it up his back. It's so stupid to design lingerie so that it needs another person to get it on - the point is maybe to need help getting it off, but on? No-one wants to have to wrestle with to zip an item of clothing that'll only be disregarded. Not that this one is coming off, or at least not soon, not until the lights are off for sure. With enough manoeuvring, swearing, and potentially pushing his wooden shoulder a little too far out of the socket Quentin has the outfit on. He turns to look at himself in the mirror.  
He sucks in his stomach then lets it go, makes a face at himself in the mirror. Despite his general disdain for his body, he has to admit that Eliot's done an excellent job here. The bodysuit has a sheer outer layer and a fishnet inner layer. The combination of the manages to smooth his body out, without squeezing, and reveal just enough to be tantalising, but not so much that he feels exposed. Quentin touches his nipple that is poking up through the little fishnets holes to push against the sheer black fabric. He's still fat, no clothing could hide that and still be breathable, but this is a hot outfit. Quentin feels almost sexy. Not that being overweight means you can't be hot, it's more that Quentin isn't hot whether he's fat or thin so he really should take up as little space as possible so as not to inconvenience anyone. He turns around in a slow circle to look at himself in the mirror, can't help himself from pinching at the fat on his thighs where the absence of fabric makes the pale doughiness of them obvious. Quentin just about manages to stop himself from digging his fingernails into the flesh, remember just a little bit of the truth - he's doing fine - he hates his body - that's okay - he has no intention of causing harm to himself. A little bit of pinching and scratching is hardly self-harm, but he knows that Eliot won't agree with him on that.  
Quentin switches the light in the bathroom off and stands in the cold darkness for a moment. Alone in the little room with no light, he can't see himself and more importantly, no one can see him. Quentin feels calm, like if no-one can see his body, maybe it's not his body. Perhaps he's just free - like Alice when she was a niffin. He hadn't entirely got her desire to go back then, after all when Quentin wanted to die it was his brain that he was trying to shut up, generally his body was just along for the ride, but now he gets the appeal. A consciousness without the human cage. Pure magic. No evidence of any internal turmoil. He shakes his head, swallows and wraps a towel around his body. Eliot may get to see him almost naked but like fuck was anyone else who happened to be in the apartment getting a free show.  
When Quentin enters the bedroom, Eliot's lying on the bed, as if it's a chaise lounge or a university sign. He's even twirling a cigarette in his hands. Quentin smiles at the memory of the day they met, even if now Eliot is somehow even more attractive. Now his eyes are more profound. He's seen more shit, and he's hiding who he is less, the showmanship is still there, but it's an accent to the beautiful outfit, not a cloak hiding the beauty underneath. Eliot's eyes light up at the side of Quentin, who clumsily drops the towel to the floor. "Tada," He says self consciously, finding himself making a little jazz hands motion.  
Eliot doesn't laugh, just slowly, reverentially stands up off the bed and walks up to Quentin. He reaches out, eyes flicking down Quentin's body then back up to his face - seeking permission. Quentin nods, suddenly finding his mouth dry. " you're so hot" Eliot puts his hands on Quentin's waist. His large hands rest there while he kneels at the end of the bed. They're at eye level with each other. Quentin blushes, both wanting to pull away and to lean in - to kiss Eliot until they're one person, until he can see himself as Eliot sees him. He settles for resting his arms on Eliot's shoulders, so they're in a facsimile of a middle school dance pose.  
A nervous giggle escapes his lips at the thought. "What?" Eliot asks, his eyes narrow playfully. His grip on Quentin's waist tightens ever so slightly - teasing.  
"Nothing," Quentin moves his hands to Eliot's chest and gently pushes, then the pair's tumbling down onto the bed. Quentin's leg hitches up so he can straddle Eliot. Eliot laughing in surprise, he doesn't let go of Quentin. Instead, his hands shift to wrap around Quentin's back - holding on, bringing Quentin down with him.  
Quentin noses at Eliot's jaw until Eliot tilts his chin up, exposing the long line on his neck. He revels in the deep groans he draws from Eliot as he licks and nips at his skin - drawing purple out from the skin. Quentin doesn't quite believe that it's him that's making Eliot make those noises, but he's not going to stop. Eliot gasps as Quentin sucks a thin layer of skin into his mouth and worries it gently between his teeth. He releases it and kisses Eliot's collarbone reverently. When he flicks his eyes up, Eliot's mouth is open in an astonished smile. Quentin kisses the hollow of his throat then sits up so he can wrap his hand up in Eliot's curls and gently pull him up to his lips.  
When they part they stay a with their lips barely not touching, Quentin leans forward and boops his nose into Eliot's with a little laugh, "Hi," He says, and he can feel his internal monologue starting up. What a cliche thing to say, if you can't be hot at least be good at dirty talk. At least Eliot can't fake an orgasm to get away from him - although if he and Alice hadn't needed to do that spell would it maybe have been easier to keep pretending he was alright in bed? Like obviously not for her, but his general in mental state. But looking at Eliot now he knows that he's not lying for Quentin's benefit and at that moment a realism hits him. Alice hadn't lied, because she wanted it to be over, for Quentin to leave her alone. She liked him. People don't fake orgasms for people they don't give a fuck about. The thought is so ridiculous, so out of place in this loving bubble with Eliot's hazel eyes looking into his, Eliot's hands gently holding his face close, that Quentin giggles. "Sorry," He says through bursts of laughter.  
Eliot's eyes rake over Quentin's face, he cracks a smile, his puzzling something out smile. The same smile that Eliot would do just before a solves an incredibly difficult spell circumstance. "What is it?" Eliot's laughing too and this is so much fucking better than crying. But now maybe Quentin is crying? He doesn't quite understand the emotion he's feeling - possibly all of them, or perhaps this is another emotion. A new one. God it's in his whole body, is this - that - the big l word. He has memories of the mosaic, but it's so much better in his actual body, obviously. Quentin shakes his head and pulls Eliot into another kiss. This time Eliot pushes him down to the bed, he props himself up on his elbow, avoiding using his damaged abs. This is different than before too, and the memory of the way Eliot used to move effortlessly makes another burst of maybe laughter maybe tears explode out of Quentin. " Are you okay?" Eliot asks with genuine concern tempering his smile. Quentin nods, and he knows that that's true - even though he's feeling all of the emotions it's okay, he wants to explore them - maybe with Eliot here his brain can throw whatever shit it wants at him, and he'd welcome it all. " I just - " Come on, Q, bravery, say it with words because last time you just kissed him and that proved complicated. " I think I love you."


End file.
